Page 4

C lara held the inkpot steady with one hand and slowly dipped the tip of her quill pen with the other. She only needed to touch the surface. No way of knowing if the pot was full or near empty. Listening carefully, she heard two drips fall to the parchment. She had to try, no matter a few spots.

Dear Christian ,

What should she say? He was obviously staying away. To give her time to heal and become accustomed to the changes. Still surely he must know she needed him—and him alone? She continued writing, trying to see the words in her mind.

Father says you have not gone to Germany. I am glad.

She dipped her pen again. Had she run out of ink on the word “glad”?

If she tested with her finger, it would smear.

She dipped again, straining against hope.

Too far. Ink sopped between her fingers.

Setting the quill down, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiped the mess, and cleaned her pen. There, a fresh start.

Please come to me as soon as you can.

Your faithful,

Clara

She tossed the quill aside and blew across the letter. As soon as it was dry, she’d ask Father to mail it.

“Clara. What are you doing?” Mother’s voiced pinched the air.

“Composing a letter.” She did not turn in her mother’s direction. Why bother? She couldn’t see her anyway .

“You really should let Lucy or Alice help you.”

“It is private.” She didn’t want their help. Her sisters cared little for her situation. Indeed, they’d whispered only last night that they were glad it hadn’t happened to them. They were safe. Father had forbidden the Stanton women to ever ride horses again, side-saddle or otherwise.

“Well, that can’t be helped my dear, can it? Not in your situation.” Her mother placed a hand on her arm.

Strange. When had she crossed the room? “What am I to do, Mother?” She aimed her mouth toward the words.

“You can behave, for a start.”

“Behave? Mother, you speak to me as an infant when I am nineteen and engaged.”

A lavender-perfumed wrist reached around her face. “Is this a letter to Christian?” She felt the paper slip out of her grasp.

“As you see.”

“Hardly legible.”

Clara stood. “Perhaps I should do better with a pencil.”

“Oh, Clara. Look at the front of your dress. You’ve ruined it. Absolutely ruined it.”

“You forget I cannot look. Cannot see.” Clara bent her head down and felt a damp stain on her bodice.

“Your skirts are spotted all over.” The tsking echoed. “Shame, for it was good linen.”

“Please write to Christian for me. Tell him to come.” It was so little to ask.

“When he is ready, dear, he will come. Now, you must dress for dinner. I’ll call Marie to help you.”

“I don’t want Marie. Send me Jenny instead.” She paused. “Please.”

“Jenny’s in the kitchen. Marie is much more adept at lacing.”

LUCY AND ALICE GIGGLED . The Mayor and his family were coming to dine. His twin sons, Silas and Charlie, would drift between flirting and torturing them when their parents weren’t looking. They could hardly wait.

Clara steadied herself at the bed post as Marie laced the corset level by level, tug by tug. With a final push to the middle of her back, Clara’s waist was cinched as far as possible. She could scarcely breathe, let alone eat.

Marie made a final knot. “Miss had better be careful with inkpots in the future.”

Lucy and Alice giggled again. Clara felt a puff of air as a body fell across the bed.

Alice sighed. “Writing a love letter can be rather dangerous, you know. One could stab oneself in the heart!” More muffled laughter.

Lucy gently pressed a comb into Clara’s hands. “I daresay I would do anything to win him back if I were you.”

“Win him back? We are to be married.” Doubt suddenly attacked.

“Christian Grant hasn’t been here since, you know. I thought maybe...” Uncertainty tinged her voice.

What? He hadn’t been to see her after the accident?

Even once? Why? Hurt built upon hurt. “He and father made an agreement. He gave me his promise.” Others said she’d been confused for many days.

But she had never forgotten about Christian.

Did he think so? How could he? She must reassure him. For now, she had a dinner to survive.

Clara sat perfectly poised. It was difficult, however, to hold her head high, knowing that the dinner guests were likely staring.

Taking a quiet breath, She reached for the wine glass, its cool exterior caught within her hand.

An achievement. She’d been practicing for this dinner for weeks. Not a drop spilled .

She had also been instructed not to fuss if a guest wanted to help her. Pity was a gift, Mother said, and to be accepted without protest.

As a result, the generous mayor heaped an overabundance on her plate, some of which fell onto the table cloth and then coated her dessert fork. The goo-covered handle would not be pleasant when Jenny served the pudding.

“Have some salt, my dear,” he offered.

How much ended up on the roasted chicken? “Thank you,” she nodded at her right.

Father cleared his throat. “We will travel to the specialist in Louisville. He’ll cure our Clara for sure, and no doubt.” Assents rose around the table.

The mayor’s wife gasped. “That will be lovely, dear. It’s what we all wish for, indeed we do. Being sightless in Europe would simply be unthinkable.”

Cure? Then her parents had hope. For the first time since her accident, joy filled her heart. A cure, Christian Grant, Europe, and a wedding. All waiting for her. She reached for the wine again, but missed the stem. The thin crystal cracked against her plate. Oh no.

She reached to straighten the glass when a large hand stopped her bare arm. “Careful, Miss Stanton. You might cut yourself.”

“Her food’s ruined, Jenny. Fetch another plate.” Mother clarified the situation for every guest.

“Yes ma’am.”

The Mayor’s boys whispered, but she heard them anyway. “Look, Silas, an Egyptian plague.”

“I see it. A bloody Nile River in those mashed potatoes.”

The mayor rumbled, “Shush, boys.”

Alice giggled. Mother gently coughed her tale-tell signal. But Clara didn’t care who laughed about her plight. As long as there was hope .

A while later, the men smoked cigars on the west side of the porch while Mother, the mayor’s wife, and Clara reclined in wicker rocking chairs.

The others played badminton nearby. Laughter rose to the robin’s nests, and Clara pretended she was among them, could see again, exultant in losing her breath and making a light hit.

She smiled. Soft tones carried somewhere beside her.

“What of Mr. Grant? What’s to be done about him?”

“To tell you the truth, we don’t know.” Her mother had tried to keep her voice low—for her. Why did they think she could not hear? No other senses had been lost.

“Can’t say I blame him if he acquits.”

“Yes. It would be difficult for a man like him to put up with a life like that. Herbert and I have considered some options.”

Clara’s smile faded into a shudder. “A life like what?” She turned to where she thought they faced.

“Never you mind, dear. Lewis? Come here. I want you to take Clara inside. Have Marie put her to bed. This evening has been too much excitement for her. My dear, your complexion looks dreadfully pallid.”

“But I’m not ready to go in.” The admonition to behave haunted her.

“No arguing. We want you well.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Clara stood, reluctant to leave the soft September breezes. “Good night,” she said. The walnut grove behind the house had no doubt begun to drop their spotted yellow leaves. How much blue chicory still bloomed by the roadside?

“You jest put yer arm right here, missy. I leads you in.”

Clara caught her ankle on the rocking chair and pretended the stabbing didn’t hurt. They crossed the long wide porch and stepped through the threshold.

“Don’t take me to Marie yet, Lewis. I want to have a cup of tea.” Wanted to make one decision for herself tonight .

“In the parlor, miss? The missus be sure to see you there.”

“I’ll take it in the kitchen.”

“Yes, miss. Jenny’ll brew it fine.”

Lewis guided her through the swinging kitchen door. Like magic, a chair scooted in front of her. Hands gently pushed her downward. She felt so babied, it was embarrassing. At least Alice and Lucy’s lack of mercy gave her some independence.

“Miss Clara’s wantin’ tea.”

Jenny ranted. “You know I be elbow deep in hot water. Why a body’s gotta use so many dishes for a meal, I’ll nevah understand. My chilluns eat it all standin’ up. All they gots to do is wash hands.” Her voice raised. “Lewis, get outta that cookie jar, I swear...”

“They’s for Miss Clara. She gettin’ too tiny.”

Clara shifted in her chair.

Jenny set the tea in front of her and placed her hands at the cup and handle. Sweetly, kindly. She inhaled aromatic Darjeeling, her favorite.

Lewis tapped her hand and she opened her palm. He doled out the cookies. “There now.”

She nibbled one and savored molasses and raisin crumbles.

Soon, very soon, all would be set aright again.